


The Hawk and the Hound

by awhitehart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Trauma, Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healing, Love, Panic Attack, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awhitehart/pseuds/awhitehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU set ten years after ADWD. Rickon is king in the North, Sandor Clegane is pledged to House Stark, and the newly rebuilt Winterfell celebrates the return of Spring and the victory of the Wars of Winter. Sansa Stark has emerged from the Eyrie more beautiful than ever, if a bit mysterious.</p><p>N.B. The first chapter was initially a stand alone piece, so by all means it can still be read that way. That said, if you're curious about more SanSan interactions, I invite you to read on. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hall was full to bursting with people, highborn and lowborn alike. There were lords bannermen and their wives as well as knights, squires, ladies maids, serving maids, stableboys, housekeepers, children, even smallfolk from Torrhen's Square and musicians.

 _Bugger the musicians,_ thought Sandor.

The music was so loud he felt his skull would surely split. Or maybe it was due to the wine. Or the heat of the hall. Fires had been lit, more in celebration than for heat, in the four great hearths of the hall. And there were too many thrice-damned people. His time on the Quiet Isle had only increased his appreciation for silence and solitude. He looked at his cup and could see the bottom. A frown formed on his brow and he reached for the jug on the table to pour himself another drink. He sniffed his cup and drank deeply. It was weak ale. He considered dumping the stuff onto the ground, but decided against it and kept drinking.

The music rose and fell in a madly spirited reel he did not recognize.

 _The smallfolk are having their turn._  He grunted and took another gulp of the ale.

The evening had started as a fine and formal affair attended only by highborn lords and ladies. All harps and flutes and formal dances. But many of the highborn who'd begun the evening in finery had retired to their rooms well before the smallfolk were allowed to attend. The music playing now featured horns, fiddles, pipes, and drums. The music of taverns and of harvest feasts; the music of the smallfolk.

He rose from the table and filled his cup again.

"Clegane!" exclaimed Abelar Addam, a burly hedge knight with a long face and big black beard. The hedge knight had a very drunk, spindly smallfolk woman with a tousled braid of brown hair sitting on his lap. Addam held a wine cup in his right hand and had his left down the front of her bodice. "Have another drink! To Spring! And to victory!" The last word was shouted.

"To Spring! To victory!" the shout was picked up by others around them. "To Spring! To victory!"

"And to Sandor Clegane, the Wightsbane!"

He ignored them and walked, with a slight limp in his left leg, outside into the main bailey. Sandor walked across the yard to the wall, found an unoccupied corner and took a piss.

 _Seven bloody buggering hells_ , he fumed,  _Wightsbane. A few damned victories led on the winning side and they all clamber towards you with praise and names._ He leaned his head against the cold stone wall in front of him. He'd almost preferred it when he'd only been a hound.

He sighed as the water left his belly. The cool stillness of the night air felt good after the stifling noise and crush of the hall. His head was beginning to feel better and lighter already.

Empty, he stuffed himself back into his britches and turned around. The moon was full and high in the black and cloudy sky. His eyes scanned the battlements atop the towers and the curtain wall. He had no trouble counting the guards on duty in the full moonlight. None he could see were asleep. That would do. The war was over but what was a castle for if not for guarding?

He took another drink of the ale and scanned his eyes around the yard. Nothing seemed amiss. He saw only others seeking the night's cover or coolness. A group of squires stood speaking and flirting awkwardly with a few simpering maids. An old man stood by the entrance to the hall, staring up at the moon and occasionally spitting gobs of sourleaf and spit. Three hedge knights stood whooping and cheering, wine cups in hand, over a fourth knight who was on all fours retching wine and his evening's meal. A wolfhound sniffed at a soldier coupling with a woman in a shadowed corner near the gate.

Sandor's gaze returned to the castle around him. The stones almost sparkled in the bright moonlight, they were that new. Victory and early spring had allowed for construction to begin. Much and more work remained but, on his insistence, the castle's main defenses and services, such as the defensive walls, as well as kitchens, stables, and forge had been completed first. The main hall and the living quarters of the castle had only been recently completed.

 _The true spring._  It's what they celebrated tonight.  _Though it doesn't bloody well seem to snow any less now that it's spring,_  he fumed as he watched a few flakes fall from the sky. But he was not altogether bitter. War and winter had brought him fortune: lands and a keep of his own. He had refused their offers of titles.

Sandor returned to the hall, but stood as far from the fires and musicians as he could. A serving maid walked by him with a jug of wine which he yanked from her hands. She only smiled at him and said, "Milord." Before she nodded politely and walked away. He only sighed and kept drinking.

The celebrating was still in full swing. His eyes roamed towards the dais. The King in the North, Rickon Stark the Winter King, still sat at the high table speaking with the noble lords at his sides. His huge direwolf Shaggy sat behind him, watching everything. The beast was always apprehensive, but cunning and fierce. At fourteen, Rickon Stark was like none other his age and no child. The boy was near a wildling himself, having spent several years on the run in the wilds of the north raised by a wildling woman named Osha. The Winter King was raised in blood and tears, among snow and pine. Rickon was just and efficient, but terribly impatient and did not care for pomp or fanfare. His foes knew him as fierce and unrelenting. Sandor liked this king. But tonight, even the Winter King was laughing.

"They should have called you Sandor the Surly instead." A woman's voice drew him from his thoughts.

He turned to see Sansa Stark standing behind him. Her bright blue eye glittered with mirth and firelight. She was dressed simply. Even the thin braided steel circlet that sat atop her head was rather plain. And yet, despite the simplicity of her dress, everything about her was lustrous as was black onyx, as was burnished copper, as was moonlit snow. Sansa's auburn hair was pleated with black velvet ribbon and draped over her shoulder, hanging down to her waist. It rested on a fine fur mantel of snow fox. Her gown was made of grey wool, but embroidered with birds in flight and leaves. The embroidery was not typical of northern dress and was surely inspired by the colourful gowns of the south, but everything else about her was of the North. Grey, white, and black; these were the Stark colours.

Sansa Stark's husband, the Lannister Imp, had never been found after he was found guilty of murdering Joffery Baratheon There were only rumours regarding his whereabouts. Once the Starks had regained decisive power in the North and the Lannister's fall from power a few hushed meetings had been held between septons and Starks regarding the issue, but no lord in the north had dared mention the subject publicly. Rickon Stark maintained the Old Gods in the North as had his father and the wildling Osha, so he declared the validity of his sister's marriage, which had been designed by Lannisters and consecrated by the Southron Seven, as nul and void in the North. None in the North dared repeat the rumours of her involvement in Joffery's murder either. Nevertheless, many northern lords still sought to gain her hand and yet, though her twenty-fourth name day had approached, she remained unmarried.

She had been the first to return to the North after time spent in the Eyrie. There had even been talk of a Queen in the North for a time, but when Rickon had been found she'd immediately taken up the cause to secure his rightful place as King in the North. She'd been a queen of sorts until Rickon showed he was well able to rule on his own.  _Still is, to look at her._

"They can call me Sandor the Bloody Blessed if they want," he snorted derisively. "I don't give a damn."

She did not flinch at his words. Instead, she turned her hands to reveal their palms and raised her shoulder, as if in defeat and said, in a slightly mocking tone, "Heroic deeds merit a hero's honours my lord. The people of Westeros honour you, Ser." She grinned and, before he could reply she turned and walked back in the direction of the dais, her skirts swirling.

He swallowed his frustration and returned to his seat near Abelar Addam. Many were now well into their cups and conversed in raucous shouts and whoops of laughter. Addam and other knights around him were recounting war stories.

"And after the battle my heart beat so fierce I thought it would burst. I tell you I got my money's worth from the whore I found afterwards!" he said and jerked his hips in rapid motions, making the woman sitting on his lap bounce up and down.

"Ah! Here he is!" exclaimed Morello Artis, as Sandor sat down. Artis was young Pentoshi sellsword with a dyed green beard who'd come for war but had stayed for a woman.

Artis peered into Sandor's cup and said, "Such a man should never have an empty cup! Here! Some wine for our friend!"

Artis poured wine into the cup and Sandor drank its contents in a few gulps, not concerned with savouring the vintage.

"And tell us again, how you came to be called Wightsbane," said the squire Brian Hunt.

"Yes! Tell us the story Clegane! You should be nearer the dais! Lords should mix with their own kind," Grinned Addam, who knew full well how Sandor felt about lordlings and knights.

"You all bloody well know the story," replied Sandor as he reached for the jug of wine to refill his cup. "And even someone with a turnip for a brain could guess how I came to have such a name. Besides, so far I've only heard you tell of your success in the whorehouse Addam. Paying for something doesn't make it a victory."

Addam and the others laughed and kept on with their ribald jests and embellished stories. They were used to Sandor's dour and bristly nature. Though a jug of wine had been placed at the table he reached for the weak ale.

Sandor soon tired of their jests and vapid conversation. He stood, but before he left looked over his shoulder towards the dais and saw the Lady Stark laughing with Alys Karstark, who was big with her third child, while Jayne Poole stood listening, gaunt and serious.

He grabbed a jug of wine from a serving maid, walked back outside and looked up at the sky. The snow was coming down more steadily now as he made for the stables. He'd often visit Stranger during the nights he couldn't sleep. The big black beast was older now, but no less spirited. The horse was Sandor's best companion.

As Sandor sat on a stool opposite Stranger's stall, he thought back on the Lady Sansa. She was nothing if not a proper lady; she always listened patiently when someone spoke, she never rose her voice, and was always polite. She also never revealed an emotion she didn't wish others to see. When Rickon was found she had supported her youngest brother with unwavering love and patience. She an excellent judge of character and always knew how to make the most of a person's strengths or flaws whether that person knew it themselves. Her patience and love had helped soften Rickon's wildness, while her knowledge of politics and intrigue had helped raise a strong and goodly king.

She was certainly no longer the little girl with a head full of nonsense and dangerous falsehoods; stories of gallant knights and fair maidens where the hero always conquered the monster. Sandor had found her all too easy to scare in Kings Landing. He had loved mocking her whenever she'd chirp all the pretty words her parents and septa had taught her. These were the same words she hadn't fully understood but had repeated just like a beautiful little trained bird from the summer isles. But all that had been years ago and Sansa Stark had learned her lessons harshly.

The honourable Ned Stark and his lady wife hadn't presumed to teach their precious daughter to arm herself with her own wits or abilities, but the girl had learned on her own. But the Starks had paid the price for their ignorance; the parents had paid with their lives while Sansa had paid with her innocence.

Sansa had learned her lessons in Kings Landing and in the Eyrie and remembered them well. Later, Petyr Baelish had suffered the consequences for underestimating Sansa. When she'd learned he'd betrayed Ned Stark, his demise had come quickly enough. The Lord Protector of the Vale had paid with his life. And now here she was, the Lady Sansa Stark, whom the smallfolk called the Snow Hawk, back in Winterfell, her family's ancestral seat. She was a King's most trusted advisor as well as his beloved sister. When the bards sung about her, they had more to sing about than just her beauty and good manners.

While Sansa had still been in the Vale, Sandor had left the Quiet Isle to follow the Maid of Tarth's path once he'd learned of her mission to find Sansa. Besides, he'd been growing restless and missed the feel of sharpened steel in his hand. His wounds had mostly healed by then, though his leg, the one he'd wounded during that stupid business with the Tickler, would never cease to trouble him.

Winter had only just begun to draw its claws and he'd forgotten the feel and ferocity of the season's bite, but finally he'd found the Maid of Tarth who'd been entangled within a plot set forward by the Brotherhood without Banners. Though the Brotherhood's mission might once have been honourable it had by then been marred by black sentiments of revenge set forth by unnatural means. Ferocity and sheer bloody determination won out and Sandor and Brienne had been free to find Sansa Stark.

They'd finally found Sansa after lengthy toil and many trials under the protection of Lord Howland Reed at Greywater Watch. They didn't know how Sansa had come to travel from the Eyrie to Greywater Watch and the details could not be extracted from her. Nearly ten years had passed since then but the Lady Stark had yet to share her secrets.

Once Sansa was found the North had rallied once more to support the last known surviving Stark and, following Rickon's return, the Wolf King. Sandor and Brienne had been commended for their acts of valour for the North. The latter had disappeared soon after to search for Sansa's younger sister Arya, who still had yet to be found. Winter had Westeros fully caught within its jowls by then and the fight for the North had been slow.

Sansa had come from the Eyrie with a falcon named Dagger. The bird was a dark copper colour and had been gifted to Sansa by Lord Nestor Royce during her stay at the Gates of the Moon in the early stages of winter while the Eyrie was closed. The bird was so dear to her it had a perch in her own chambers. Sansa hunted with the creature every day the weather permitted.

Once, when Sandor had been summoned by the King to Winterfell for council, he'd come upon Sansa hunting with her hawk. She had been standing in the fields beyond the walls of Winterfell surrounded by her lady's maids and a few household knights. Her long auburn hair and forest green skirts had flitted in the wind. Small game had laid scattered dead at her feet. Sandor watched as one of Sansa's maids picked up the game from the ground into a basket on her arm and thought he saw a single mockingbird resting amongst a few rabbits and ducks.

It was then that one of Sandor's own hounds had barked. Sansa's hawk had been perched on the thick leather hawking glove she wore. Bird and master had looked at Sandor sharply. Blue eyes and gold eyes had stared at him without surprise, almost as if they'd expected to see him.

"What a pretty little bird, Lady Stark!" He'd shouted, laughing into the wind before spurring Stranger on towards Winterfell.  _Yes. A pretty little bird with keen eyes and sharp talons._

But all that had been before the Others. The Others had changed everything. Most of Westeros had been caught by surprise, so focused were they on their own squabbles. But warring factions had abandoned their grudges to save their skins and to fight the cold and darkness. Those who hadn't had been quick to die.

Luckily, the Night's Watch had known of the impending attack and had long prepared for the onslaught. The arrival of the Dragon Queen had also aided Westeros, as had some secrets hidden forgotten long ago in the scrolls of long dead maesters at the Citadel, had also helped save the realms of Men.

Sheer bloody terror had also served to spur their cause. Even he, Sandor Clegane, who'd mocked death and the gods every time he took sword in hand and whose own horse was named Stranger, had been afraid; he'd been afraid and so terribly, terribly cold. Even now, still feeling too warm from the heat in the Great Hall, Sandor shivered and tried to push the memories of the terror of the Long Night to the furthermost recesses of his mind. He drank deeply from his cup.

No wars plagued Westeros at present and for once in his life he was grateful for peace as he could enjoy his rewards. The keep the Starks had awarded him, called Longhall, was a few leagues north of Winterfell in the Lonely Hills overlooking the pine forests and Long Lake. Though Longhall was near the Kingsroad it was a quiet place and he had learned to enjoy silence during his time on the Quiet Isle. He shared Longhall with only his hounds and a few servants and was content so long as he had hot food and wine in his belly as well a sharp blade and a roof over his head. But sometimes the place grew too quiet, even for him.

Sandor thought of the hearth in his small hall at Longhall where he'd sit late into the night staring into the fire while his hounds slept and the northern winter gales wailed outside.  _The Lonely Hills indeed_ , he thought and immediately snorted at his own weakness.

But at least he had earned Longhall for himself and it was his very own. It didn't reek of his monstrous brother Gregor as would have Clegane's Keep. When Gregor had died, someone had thought to send the Mountain's sword to Sandor. He remembered the day it had arrived; he'd still been on campaign with the King in the North's army against the Others somewhere in the North, perhaps Lasthearth. The blade had been too bloody large for any other man but Gregor the Mountain to wield. Sandor had walked directly to the nearest forge, thrown the blade right onto the flaming coals and pushed aside an apprentice to work the bellows himself. He'd watched intently as the metal burned and melted into nothing. Would that Sandor could melt that blade a thousand times again.

Sandor stood, rubbed the flat of his palm over the velvet of Stranger's nose and walked out of the stables towards the tower abutting the South Gate. After long years at war, habit made him prefer to sleep in a room of tactical significance; he'd be among the first to wake if the castle were attacked.

He climbed the darkened and winding staircase to the third floor. His pace was slow because of the ache in his leg, but finally he reached his room and opened the door. A servant had lit a fire some time ago and only embers remained in the hearth, casting the room in a red glow.

"I had begun to think you would not come, Sandor Clegane," spoke a voice from the shadows.

Sandor remained silent, but clenched his fists. Rage roiled in his gut. He almost pitied the intruder.

A cloaked figure rose from the corner opposite him, by the fireplace. The intruder stood before the curtained arrowslit which was the room's only window.

"You will speak your business wraith," he rasped.

The figure drew its hood back.

"Seven buggering hells woman. What madness has brought you here?" He was looking at Sansa Stark. His rage remained, though it was now motivated by frustration rather than surprise.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Ser."

Sandor knew she took pleasure in insisting on calling him Ser though she bloody well knew better. He would not please her by acknowledging the jibe. Sandor took long strides towards her and quickly closed the gap between them. Though the room was hot already he leant and grasped a log and flung it brusquely onto the embers. Sparks flew. Sansa did not flinch.

Pale slender fingers reached up to undo the clasp of her cloak, which she draped over a chair by the fireplace. Uninvited, she sat in the chair by the hearth facing him. The way she carried herself, as though they were still in the Great Hall and not in his room well past midnight, enraged him.

"Shall I fetch milady some cheese, figs, and sweet tarts too?" he asked in an acid tone. After his time on the Quiet Isle, he had learned to hold his tongue, if not his anger, in most situations. But he never maintained pretenses. And he was no bloody mute besides.

She ignored his sarcasm and said only, "I would be grateful for a cup of wine, thank you." She undid the clasp to her mantle and let it fall onto the back of the chair. Unlike the southron dresses, Sansa's collar was in the northern style, with a higher neckline, but despite this, he could see the unblemished pale skin of her collarbone. "The Hall was warm and my throat is dry." Blue eyes, deep as pools on a sunny day, looked up at him through long lashes and a sly smile played on her lips.  _She's enjoying this._

Growling, he grabbed a jug of wine from a side table and poured into a goblet, which he then shoved in front of her face. Sansa took the cup from his large hand and sipped gracefully as her eyes looked about the sparsely furnished room. Apart from the two chairs by the hearth, the room had only Sandor's traveling chest, a small table, and a simple canopied bed. Her eyes stopped on the bed and only turned towards him, her back straightening.

"You are comfortable here?" she asked politely.

Sandor dropped himself into the chair opposite her. Through clenched teeth he said, "Why are you here? Why did you not speak to me before? You sneak around like that bloody eunuch the Spider."

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you in private." She shrugged and took another sip of wine. "And your choice of accommodations allowed for a private meeting away from prying eyes and ears. No one shall bother us here."

When he said nothing, she went on. "I've come to propose to you a bride, a lady for Longhall."

His anger evaporated and he laughed loudly. "A wife. For me?! Are you daft?" The idea was laughable, ludicrous. He knew most lords took wives in order to produce heirs to safeguard the family's lands, titles, and holdings, but Sandor Clegane was not most men.

When Sansa did not reply, Sandor looked at her and the laughter died instantly in his chest. He saw that, for the first time in a long time, Sansa seemed nervous. Comprehension washed over him.

"You?" he rasped.

"Yes," she replied simply.

 _No_ , he thought.  _She has lost her mind and does not know what she asks._ He could not let her want this.

"You have truly lost your mind girl. Look at me! I'm a killer. It's what I've always done. You should know that." The anger had returned. He curled his fingers into a fist, which he pounded down onto the side table. The impact sent the wine jug crashing onto the floor.

" _Others_  yes, but never me. And I learned long ago to judge a man by his deeds and not by his words or the look of his face," she spoke firmly, confidently.

Silence hung between them.

Frustration still roiled within him and he fell back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest brusquely. He cocked his head to give her a withering look.

"What? Do you think me handsome?" the words were sneered, mocking.

"Of course not. Do not mock me," she replied immediately.

Sandor snorted and stood to loom over her, huge and imposing, "Ah! The little bird has a sharp beak. Finally, she speaks true!" He growled the words.

Unexpectedly, Sansa stood as well, defiant despite the fact that he towered over her. Her lips drew into a hard thin line and a red blotchy flush was creeping up her pale skin from her chest. After years of mockery, intimidation and fear, he had never seen her furious as she was now.

"A pretty little bi-"

She struck him across the face, the burned part of his face, with the full weight of her body before he could finish his jibe. The slap made a sharp "crack!" and his head jerked from the blow.

"I am no. Little.  _Bird_ ," she hissed, her chest heaving from the effort of the slap as well as rage. "And I belong in no man's cage."

They glared at each other a moment before she dropped herself back into her chair. With her left hand she reached for the wine goblet while her right stayed in her lap. She drank long from the cup and stared into the fire, avoiding his gaze. Her hand trembled slightly.  _She looks ashamed, ashamed that she hadn't behaved like a true lady. It was the look she sometimes had in King's Landing after she'd scrapped with that wolf pup of a sister._

In a voice that was almost a whisper, he said, "You see what folly such talk leads to? I am old. I am battered, and broken besides." Years of fighting had left him with innumerable ugly scars all over his body. And his face...  _Yes, I would make a fine bridegroom indeed_ , he thought bitterly. But then, briefly, he thought of his silent hall, of his single seat by the hearth at Longhall.  _I am a lonely old dog_ , he thought, angry at his own madness.

It seemed she had not heard him. She was looking down at the hand in her lap, the one with which she'd struck him. Blood glistened in the firelight on her palm. It was smeared with blood, with his blood. She had struck him on the burned side of his face and though the ruined flesh had not felt the sting of the blow, it had opened one of the oozing fissures. He felt a warm trickle run down his neck.

When next she spoke, her voice was not that of the Lady Stark, but that of a tired and sad young woman, "My own flesh does not reveal my scars, but you do know I have them. Like you, I am no perfect creature."

She looked back up at him then and he saw that the fury had left her eyes though they were indeed now heavy and weary. And beautiful.  _She truly does have a woman's face._ "We are not so different from each other, you and I," she continued.

This he could not accept. "I am a beast, Sansa. A dog. I am no man." He turned the burned side of his face towards her so she could better see the blackened skin, the glistening pocks of burned flesh, the hint of bone.

The ruin of his face garnered no reaction. She had likely grown accustomed to it by now. From her sleeve she produced a kerchief and made to reach for the blood on his neck. In that moment Sandor felt weak. He felt powerless. He flinched from her touch and she withdrew her hand.

In a small, but steady voice she pressed, "A beast would not have done as you have." Her eyes were intent as they sought his own, "A beast would have searched for the Stark and not for Sansa. And-" she hesitate, "a beast would not have kissed me such as you did."

He made no reply.  _Ah, so she does remember._

When he and the Maid of Tarth had finally found Greywater Watch, Sansa Stark had been wretchedly ill.  _Because of her passing through the swamps in winter,_  the Reeds had said. A wracking cough and aggressive fever had the girl bedridden. When Sandor and Brienne had been presented to Sansa, the young woman had not even been capable of rising from her bed. Over the next week, her sickness had only gotten worse.

They'd all taken turns watching over the girl, as Greywater Watch only had two servants. Late one night, he'd sat by the fire in Sansa's room, rethinking on his time on the Quiet Isle, of his flight from King's Landing, of his time serving the Lannisters. Suddenly, he'd known fear: a fear of losing her had overwhelmed him. It had been a strange feeling to which he'd been unaccustomed.

He'd walked over to Sansa's bed and looked down at what had then been the last known living Stark.  _Winterfell's daughter._  The figure in the bed had been a young woman, so changed from the little girl he'd known in King's Landing. Despite the gauntness brought on by the sickness, her face had lost its childish features and her body was that of a slender, but ample young maid's. The sheer nightgown she'd worn had been imbibed with sweat and her skin had been pale, paler than he'd ever seen. Wisps of hair had clung to her neck and brow despite the fact that someone had pleated it in an effort to keep most of it away from her face.  _Even on the brink of death, she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms._  Before that night he'd only known beauty as a weapon used by those who possessed it to corrupt and sway those around its possessor. Cersei Lannister had been a great beauty, but vile and a creature of low cunning. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark still managed – often to his great annoyance – to insist on loving others and to hope for a future without suffering, almost unaware of the potential power her own beauty. As he'd looked down on her, he'd then noticed that some of her hair was still brown from the dye she'd used in the Eyrie. Bile and rage had boiled up from his chest then at the sight before him.  _My fault. This is my fault. I have failed her._

"I – I promise never to leave you again. Do you hear me? I will rip the throats out of those that would hurt you. You have my word, girl." The words had come out hoarse from both disuse and emotion. He'd grown angrier when he'd felt tears threaten at the corners of his eyes.

For the first time in his life, he knew in that very moment what it was to love another. He'd leaned over and kissed Sansa on her fevered brow, then had turned away to sit once more in the chair by the hearth until sunrise when the Maid of Tarth had relieved him from his post.

But slowly, Sansa had strayed from the Stranger's path and had regained her health. Now here she was, sitting before him healthy, with flushed cheeks.

Sandor only nodded in confirmation, keeping his gaze steady on hers. "Greywater Watch. Yes," he admitted.

"And in King's Landing." She added.

The feeling of solemnity broke and he barked a laugh, "King's Landing! When?"

Briefly, a look of bewilderment passed over Sansa's face and then was gone. She shook her head, auburn hair glinting in the firelight, and continued, hesitant, "I've – I've long thought of you."

"Why? Sansa. Why would you want me?"

"I can have anyone I please. You are the only one who ever told me the truth about this life." She raised her arms, gesturing to the world around them. "That this life to which we dance is set to the Stranger's tune."

This statement, Sansa Stark speaking of the Stranger, surprised him. He knew that this young woman had more experience with the Stranger's powers than most highborn ladies her own age. It's what he'd tried to teach her in the Red Keep, but to hear her speak it now...

"You speak of defeat and death, girl. You wish to marry me and hide in Longhall. Well, I can't blame you, but it doesn't mean I'll let you."

"No." She was flustered again, frustrated. The flush had returned to her cheeks.  _Alone in this room she shows her true emotions,_  he realized. "I speak of  _life,_ Sandor. I have one life to live. I will not let others decide my fate."

A twitch on the burned side of his mouth was his only reply. The old Sandor would have mocked her, would have snorted derisively. But the Sandor he now was would not belittle her in this. He only turned his gaze towards the fire and reached for another log, which he then added to the flames. The Sansa of King's Landing would not have come to his room in the dead of night, would not have addressed him with confidence, would not have challenged him. He'd thought her very much changed since her return from the Eyrie, but to hear her speak thusly fully confirmed his suspicions. Long moments passed and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames.  _She has learned to play the game, she is a patient creature._ He thought again of the chatty, scared little bird in King's Landing and then of Cersei, of Joffrey, of Littlefinger. They'd thought themselves great players of the game and yet...  _All dead,_ he thought,  _while Sansa lives, is sister to a king and is now the one to play us all._ Sandor laughed despite himself.

When finally he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. "I have never dared to want anything since – since," he thought of the brazier, of Gregor, of the sister he barely remembered. He shook his head and went on, "since I was a boy. Wanting something means a person's got something to lose, and having something to lose makes a person weak." The words were running from him. Perhaps he was weak. Or just tired. He wished he hadn't spilled all the wine.

"What of your brother, the King? He would consent that his beloved sister wed an old dog?" The notion was a weak one, he knew.

Her blue eyes glimmered and her lips drew in a wicked smile, "Rickon would not deny me anything."

Sandor knew she was right.  _In this the fight has left me,_  he realized. The faint jealousy he'd buried deep inside him, the rage he'd felt whenever he'd seen her laugh and jest with noble lords rose up from his chest. He thought back on that night in Greywater Watch all those years ago when he thought she was sure to die.  _Damn me. Damn me to the deepest depths of the Seven Hells. I want her._ When her eyes caught his, the look on her face told him she knew she'd won.  _She's caught me, just as easily as when her bird catches a rabbit._  She extended an arm, offering him her goblet and he saw the glint of dark red wine. He looked back up at the woman seated before him; the most beautiful woman in Westeros.  _My thirst._


	2. Distant Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa weds Sandor and they move to his keep located north of Winterfell. Sansa seems happy but nothing is ever as it seems.

Sansa stepped over the flagstone of the doorway and entered the great hall of her new home, Longhall. Her eyes scanned the room, appraising her surroundings. Though not a grand space, the hall felt almost cavernous; it had a lofty wooden roof supported by thick cross beams of oak, darkened by many centuries of smoke. Opposite the entrance where she stood was a hearth, large enough that several grown men could stand within. Sansa noticed the absence of tapestries or of any decorations for that matter. The bareness of the walls likely made the space seem that much larger. The only piece of furniture in the hall was a great arm chair by the mouth of the fireplace; it had a high back padded with dark crimson fabric worn with use and time as well as long armrests made of thick, dark oak.

 

Longhall was a large tower house surrounded by a fortified wall; it sat between the shores of Long Lake and the Lonely Hills. The keep maintained the highest prospect for many leagues and from it the view extended far up and down the King’s Road, as well as over the pine forests beyond Long Lake in the west and the barren Lonely Hills to the east.

 

The sound of Sansa’s steps echoed off of the bare stone walls as she advanced towards the center of the hall. Half a dozen hounds who’d been lounging in front of the hearth’s fire ran towards her and Sansa stood her ground to pat them as they sniffed, tails wagging, at her skirts and outstretched hands. Their wet noses were cold against her palms. Heavy footfalls resounded behind her. She turned.

 

Sansa had known Sandor Clegane since she had been a girl in Kings Landing. Though she was now only four and twenty, the days in King’s Landing felt like they’d occured several lifetimes ago,  like they’d occurred to someone else. Since those days, Sandor’s appearance had not changed much; he was still one of most imposing men she’d ever looked upon. His fierce, implacable demeanour and enormous stature had always terrified her as a girl. The right side of his face was a burned ruin of blackened, contorted flesh, and he brushed shoulder length hair the colour of coal over that side in an attempt to conceal what he could. The only differences to his appearance were a few additional lines beneath his unburned eye and a limp caused by an old injury in his left leg. Other things had changed about him over the years, but these were things that flesh could not reveal. _I too have changed._ She smiled sadly to think of the young, impressionable girl in King’s Landing. _And here I stand, wed to the man who used to terrify me._ She had learned long ago, from personal experience, that Sandor Clegane was the furthest thing from truly terrifying. There were things far worse than truth and death.

 

“It is a very fine home, husband,” she smiled warmly. “I would add a few things of my own if you do not mind.”

 

Sandor shrugged, his look indifferent, “This is your place now too, woman. Do what you will, though it’s far from the grandeur you’re used to.” He turned to the servants behind him, who stood outside by the carriage, “Bring my lady wife’s things up to our rooms,” he barked, “and bring a table down from the attics, the lady and I will sup in the hall tonight.”

 

“This will do,” Sansa affirmed, then thanked each of the servants as they passed by with her things, before she turned back to look at the hall. A thrill passed through her. _This will do very well._

 

-

 

Convincing him to wed her had been easy enough. He’d resisted the idea at first, as she’d known he would. But visiting him in the dead of night, in his room at Winterfell as the castle celebrated victory over the Others and the return of spring, had surprised him, had caught him off his guard. She’d then reminded him of that night in Greywater Watch soon after he’d found her; she’d lain abed at the Stranger’s door, stricken by sickness and fever. That had been the night he’d pledged never to leave her side, the night he’d kissed her. It had surprised him to speak of that night; she’d known he’d thought her ignorant of it and thus he had yielded to her desires. _The rage within him has been gentled somewhat after all_ , Sansa remembered thinking as she’d passed him her wine goblet once the matter had been settled.

 

The wedding had taken place soon after and had been a small affair; Sansa was generally loath of weddings, having never known anything remotely pleasant to result from them. This had been her second wedding besides, though none dared make mention of the first. Her brother Rickon had been the one to walk her towards the heart tree while only a handful of Northern lords and the members of the Stark household looked on within the godswood. Sansa had wanted few to attend the wedding, but had thought it important that the witnesses be of varied import and stations within the North. Stables boys could be just just as useful as lords in all sorts of situations.

 

As a young girl Sansa had dreamed of her future husband; he’d been tall and gallant and golden-haired. In her dreams, he’d smiled brilliantly as he’d swept his family’s cloak, made of fine silks and cloth of gold, about her shoulders. She’d imagined streams of soft light shining through the coloured glass of the hushed sept as the septon proclaimed them man and wife before the Seven. Instead, she’d stood in Winterfell’s godswoods, before the Old Gods, while a blustery northern wind had shaken the heart tree’s branches above them. And the man who’d stood beside her had been a great hulking figure, dark haired and dour. The cloak he’d draped brusquely onto her shoulders had been of wool and the colours of his house had been rather faded. The wool had weighed heavily upon her shoulders and scratched at her neck.

 

Though the feast that night had featured the best the cooks and cellars of Winterfell could provide, the evening had not been much different than most other feasts. There had been much mirth and merriment and Sansa had been delighted to speak to all those in attendance, especially those she had not seen in some time. Some had asked her to dance, though it was well known Sansa never took a turn, but when she’d stood to retire early, none had made ribald jests or insisted on a bedding. The bride was the King’s own much-beloved sister and well loved by highborn and lowborn alike, though Sansa remained somewhat of a mysterious figure since her re-emergence at Greywater Watch after her abrupt disappearance from King’s Landing many years ago. The groom was lauded as a hero of the Wars of Winter, but also well known as a grim and fierce warrior. Futhermore, Rickon Stark and Sandor Clegane were well known as prickly by nature, so none dared offend the lady both men held so dear.

 

Sansa also knew that most of the guests, as much as most people in Westeros, did not at all understand her choice of groom. Here was a lady who held the North in the palm of her hand and was casting away fortune and glory for a burned face and a lonely keep.

 

As she’d well known, her brother Rickon wanted whatever it was _she_ wanted and for that she was grateful. For a time the North had rallied behind the last known living Stark and named her Queen of the North, but when Rickon was discovered she had quickly relinquished the crown to him. Rickon had fled with the wildling Osha after the sacking of Winterfell by the Ironmen and, following that, Roose Bolton. He’d re-emerged from the wilds skittish, but apt and intelligent. Sansa had given all the love and guidance she had been able to give him, and he’d grown into a strong and just king. He was wise beyond his sixteen years, as were wildlings boys, and, though he was known as fierce, he was doing the North well. Though Longhall was not all that far from Winterfell, leaving him would be difficult. But Sansa knew that in life, joy was just a fickle flame in a world of strong winds and shadows. Merely looking at him was sometimes painful, as his features roused the ghosts of the family they had both lost. The trust she maintained in Osha’s presence at Winterfell made her feel better, as did knowing that the wildling woman was there alongside Rickon’s direwolf Shaggy. The North could fall again, but she’d be content so long as her brother was safe.

 

Before departing, Sansa rose from her seat at the dais and thanked everyone for their attendance, then kissed Rickon on the cheek and then taken Sandor’s arm. As the newlyweds climbed the shadowy stone steps together towards their room on the upper floors of Winterfell, Sansa couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Haven’t regretted your decision yet, girl? Or do you laugh to conceal your tears?” Sandor had asked as they reached the landing and walked down the corridor to their room for the night.

 

Sansa had shook her head, “Oh no. I laugh because I thought of those times you roamed the Red Keep, scaring a certain young girl on the serpentine steps.” She’d caught his eye and enjoyed seeing his burn lip twitch. “And now see whose arm I grasp as I climb another set of stairs to my marriage bed.”

 

Sandor laughed at that; it was a great sound that erupted from deep within his chest and echoed off the granite walls.

 

“That is funny, I’ll grant you that,” he’d said as he’d opened the door to their room for her. “Though there’s still time for you to regret doing this yet.”

 

She’d walked into the room before him and looked at the full moon shining brightly in the night sky through the latticework window. _The moon is ice and steel._ She’d drawn the curtain across the window and only the dim light of the coals in the hearth remained, casting the room in a blood red glow.

 

“So this is what you wanted Sansa?” he’d asked as he’d shut the door behind him. No hint of laughter remained and his eyes bore into her.

 

Sansa had known this was something he was likely to ask. She’d known he was still unsure, as everyone else, why she’d wanted this. She’d given her reasons, but she knew he didn’t believe her fully, but still, he’d married her.  Sansa had learnt what was appropriate to say in almost every situation, she knew which words to speak – whether it was with great lords or ladies, the cook, or the King - in order to turn a conversation to her favour, but, before she could say anything, Sandor had undone his sword and belt and dropped it onto the floor. He’d then drawn his tunic, a formal tunic of blue wool with a leather dogs head sewn onto the front, over his head and suddenly he’d stood before her wearing only his undertunic. His eyes had been grey flame ablaze with fury.

 

“This is what you fucking wanted?” he’d growled as he’d pulled the remaining garment off his back and thrown it to his feet. In two long strides he’d closed the gap between them and towered over her, challenging her. His anger had rolled off him in waves.

 

 _Mother have mercy._ On hot days in King’s Landing, Sansa had sometimes seen men practice their fighting in the yard, their bare chests glinting with sweat in the bright light of the southron sun. But Sandor Clegane had never been one of those men and in that moment she’d understood why. The sight of a man’s bare chest had sometimes thrilled her, but here she stood before her own husband, breathless and palpably afraid. Sandor Clegane stood before her naked, but somehow, he looked even more threatening unclothed that clad in mail and plate. The man was all muscle; he was broad of chest and shoulders, with huge arms and legs all covered with dark hair. _But the scars_ , she knew her eyes had betrayed her shock. Sansa: the woman who often knew what a person thought before they did themselves, was surprised. She could not remember the last time she had been surprised.

 

She had expected scars, knowing full well the type of man Sandor Clegane was and knowing the stories of his exploits in battle, but she had not expected wounds such as this. His chest and arms were covered in scars from wounds old and new. She figured the crater in his right shoulder was the result of a crossbow bolt. Two small toes from his right leg were missing: _From the frosts of war._ Though Sansa knew many had lost more than toes in the war against the Others. She suppressed a shiver.

 

But of the greatest wounds he bore besides his face, Sansa had been ignorant: his shield arm was badly burned and a large portion of flesh was missing from the meat of his left leg. It was a wonder the injury had not cost him the limb, nor killed him outright. Though healed, the ghost of that horrible wound had been painful to look upon.

 

“Gods Sandor,” Sansa had said in a hushed voice. For once, she had been lost for words. _Are these the Warrior’s own wounds?_ The pounding in her chest subsided at the thought and she felt herself retreat from panic. She looked back up to the grey intensity of his eyes, _He is ever determined to challenge._ She’d maintained her composure throughout the day, but the long hours in the public eye were draining and she’d felt fatigue and sadness wash over her then. _He bears the records of years of blood and war as can no maester’s scrolls within the Citadel._

 

Sansa took a breath and marshalled her strength, her lady’s strength, “And I thought nothing could shock me anymore,” she uttered a mirthless breath. _A lady would not notice his scars_ , the girl she’d once been would have thought, but Sansa had learned better in the years since. Most people had scars, but whether or not they could be seen was another matter. She had finally learned that sometimes there was simply nothing _to_ be said. Sandor remained still and silent, rooted in place, fists clenched.

 

Sansa had closed the gap between them, had placed her hand on his chest gently, as one would touch a skittish horse. He towered over her. She breathed again, more calmly this time, and looked up at him. When her eyes caught his, the side of his burned mouth twitched. _He is unsure._

“I have my own scars you know.” Sansa said finally. Her hands reached out to cradle the curve of his jaw. The burned flesh felt smooth and hard in her palm. She moved that hand down over his chest, over his hard belly towards the crater in his thigh. She paused, feeling the twisted flesh and the soft dark hair of his thigh, then slowly trailed her hand to the heat of his manhood. As her lips sought his she’d whispered, “And yes, this is what I fucking wanted.”  

 

That night they’d yielded to each other and fumbled in the dark, seeking respite from their loneliness in the heat of each other’s arms.

 

-

 

They’d departed for Longhall at first light the next morning. The party travelling with them had been large enough as it had consisted mostly of Umbers who would escort the Clegane party until Longhall  before moving on to Last Hearth, their seat. The Umbers usually stopped at Longhall for the night on the road to and from Winterfell, but this time it had been decided they would leave the newlyweds to themselves and so they’d continued on their way. Sansa had decided that for the moment she would bring only her maid Lyra along with her until she decided whether or not the keep needed more staff, so Longhall felt almost abandoned when the Umbers left. There wasn’t even a maester at Longhall yet. The girl Sansa would have felt forlorn to watch the Umbers continue up the King’s Road, but the woman felt only relief when her own party left the Kings Road and made towards Longhall.

 

-

 

After ensuring that the servants were doing as he’d instructed, Sandor went to grumble at his men-at-arms to see that all was still in order at Longhall. Sansa was left to explore the family rooms by herself. The family rooms were located on the third floor and seemed comfortable enough with their dark wooden beams, low ceilings, and large hearths. Though the rooms were somewhat small, there was a solar and the bed chamber even had an adjoining garderobe.  

 

In the bed chamber Sansa noticed the only piece of finery she had seen since arriving at Longhall; a great oak four-poster bed with an ornamented canopy. The contrast of this solitary piece laid against the bareness of the room made the bed seem rather out of place. The hangings were a deep golden yellow, richly embroidered with silk thread and depicted a lively hunting scene; there were jumping stags, flapping partridges, running hounds, horsed huntsmen, a single woman with her hawk, and wolves lurking amidst trees and leafy greenery. Sansa reached out a hand to feel the work; it must have taken several septas hundreds of hours to complete. It was stunning and very southron in style. Nevertheless, Sansa was sure it was one of the finest beds she had ever seen. She drew back the curtain and reached out a hand to prod the mattress; beneath layers of fine linens and furs was a featherbed. She grinned.

 

Sansa stepped back from the bed and looked around. The grey granite walls around her felt almost familiar and reminded her somewhat of Winterfell before it had been destroyed by Ramsay Snow, the Lord Roose Bolton’s mad bastard.

 

Lyra approached her, holding a gown. Lyra was a small woman, a crannogwoman, with curly brown hair and bright, watchful eyes. She was at an age with Sansa and had nursed her during her illness at Greywater Watch. When Sansa had recovered and left for Winterfell, Lyra had accompanied her; she was one of the few people Sansa fully trusted.

 

“Would my lady wish to choose a gown for this evening’s supper?” she held up the gown in her arms. The dress was new and had been made in anticipation for Sansa’s wedding; it was grey wool trimmed with black fur and embroidered with simple yellow vines at the wrists and at the skirt’s hem.

 

 “You know me best Lyra. I’ll wear what you hold. But I’ll wear the black fur mantle if it please you.”

 

 “Of course, my lady,” Lyra bowed. “And after you’ve supped, shall I send the other maids away and pour my lady a bath?”

 

Sansa smiled gratefully, “I would be lost without you.”

 

Sansa left Lyra and the other maids to finish unpacking and walked into the solar towards the window which offered a view of Long Lake. The setting sun glimmered off the water like a burnished copper shield and the world was alight in warm orange tones of early evening. _I wonder where it was that William Stark had his head cut off along these shores after the battle against the wildlings a century ago._ She watched as a cloud drew across the sun and a gust of wind swept over the pines and rippled across the lake; she was lost in reverie when Sandor entered the room behind her.

 

The greeting she had been about to offer died on her lips when she saw the expression on his face. Brusquely, Sandor handed her a tiny packet wrapped in soft blue cloth and tied with black velvet ribbon. Nestled inside the folds of fabric was a brooch; it was a flat ring of gold with a hinged pin in the shape of a sword running across it. The front was worked a design of latticework and leaves. Sansa turned the ring around; on the back small flowers were engraved into the gold along with an inscription she could not read. The gold was worn and looked very old. The metal felt heavy and cold in the palm of her hand.

 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she replied, grateful for the gesture as much as the gift itself. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the words written here. What does the inscription say?”

 

Sandor looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here. His gaze was fixed on the floor between them. He cleared his throat and said, “The words are Rhoynish; they say _sanz de partier_ , never to part.” He paused, the awkwardness he felt was plain on his face. Sansa had to refrain herself from smiling; she had never seen him like this, almost sheepish. “It belonged to my mother,” he added, “she was from Dorne.” His lips parted as though he would say more, but he only turned and strode from the room.

 

 The gold was beginning to feel warm in her hand.

 

-

 

A huge table, worn and ancient-looking, had been brought out from storage and a very Northern supper – simple yet sumptuous - had been spread between the Lord and Lady of Longhall: there was fresh baked bread, leg of lamb with sauce of mint and cloves, beef ribs roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs, roasted onions in gravy, mashed turnips with butter, and peas. For dessert there were apple and spring berry tarts served with sweet cream, stewed plums, and even lemon cakes frosted in sugar. Sansa knew the cost of lemons in the North and was not ungrateful.

 

The meal was consumed mainly in silence. Sansa was content just to watch Sandor over her wine goblet. Knowing what she knew now, she could see the Dornish traits he carried, the black of his hair certainly and perhaps the profile of his nose? Sansa wondered if the unnamed mother had been comely or even kind, and immediately chided herself silently for being sentimental. She tried to imagine what he’d have looked like had he not been burned. There was power, a robustness, in his features, in his aquiline nose and cheekbones, and a certain flicker in his steel grey eyes that she found pleasing. He might not have been handsome, not like Ser Loras Tyrell had once been, she decided, but there was something about his character, something in the constancy of his gaze that drew her to him. _Truth and steel_ , she thought, fingering the brooch on her mantle.

 

Once the servants had begun to clear the plates and platters away, Sandor coughed and leaned back into his seat, his grey eyes on her.

 

“And what does the lady think of this place I wonder? The Lonely Hills didn’t get their name for nothing. I expect you’d like some bloody singers to visit and break the silence?”

 

“ _No_.” Sansa answered all too quickly. _Gods Sansa. Remain steadfast and all will be well._ She took a sip from her goblet and the moment took long enough for her to regain her composure. The hot spiced wine was sweet but strong. She smiled, “I am a woman wed and singers have not been to my taste for some years.” She saw the singer Marillion in her memory, missing an eye and some fingers. _I hear him sing at night,_ Robert Arryn had insisted, even after Marillion’s death. The girl she had been would have shuddered, but instead Sansa said, “There will be time enough to think of such things after I’ve made myself comfortable here. Organizing the household will be entertainment enough for some time.”

 

Sandor laughed and the sound echoed off the bare granite walls of the hall. “No skin off my nose. The gods know I’ve no love for bloody singers.” Momentarily, his gaze was searching, but suddenly he raised his arms and gestured to the hall around them. “But you didn’t answer. What do you really think of this place? You’ll be lonely here. A lady bird tends to loves a flock about her.”

 

“You know I won’t be lonely here. Silence has become a favourite friend since King’s Landing.” She wanted to change the topic. “The bed. It’s magnificent.”

 

He smiled, amused, and perhaps a little proud, “Other than a sharp blade, good shoes and a good bed are things worth fussing over in this world. And besides,” he stretched his arms, working the muscles in his back, then reached for his wine goblet in front of him, “I’ve slept on enough palettes and beneath enough hedges for a lifetime.” His eyes glimmered with mirth, “And I supposed I didn’t want my lady wife’s ass getting sore sleeping on a straw mattress. Might be that a good night’s rest is the start to keeping a wife happy, even in this place.”

 

“But I’ve already been happy in this place,” she retorted. This caught Sandor by surprise. His eyes narrowed slightly, but Sansa continued before he could say anything, “As a child, I visited Longhall with my family.”

 

He said nothing and she went on, “Did you know, that after the Battle of Long Lake well over a century ago, Longhall was gifted to the Umbers by my family? Though a few years before the war of the Five Kings it belonged to a cadet branch of house Bolton and once Rickon became king he made sure no Boltons remained,” the words left a sudden dryness in her mouth. _Life is not a song..._ “Longhall has always been a special place in the North. Once I learnt of its fate after the demise of its previous masters I could not resist making the best of a situation for the both of us.”

 

Uncertainty flashed in his eyes and the burnt side of his lips twitched. 

 

 “For _us_ you say? Some years have passed since I came here, since Starks bestowed this place to me.” His tone was challenging.

 

Sansa could not help but smile into her cup as she said, in a tone that was all too sweet, “Oh yes, I know. Hadn’t you wondered why you’d received such a grand place, even a hero such as you?”

 

Only then did he laugh; the sound was steel scraping on stone.

 

-

 

Later that night, after her bath, Sansa sat before the fire in their room as Lyra brushed her hair and stared into hearth, enjoying the flickering flames and the steady heat.

 

Lyra was just about done braiding the length of her hair for the night when Sandor came in, evidently surprised that she was still awake. Sansa saw at least two hounds poke their faces through the doorway behind him, sniffing at the room.

 

“Out!” he pointed and the faces retreated. Sandor shut the door behind him.

 

Sansa thanked Lyra and bid her goodnight, though the latter gave Sandor an appraising glare as she left the room.

 

The door had hardly shut behind her when Sandor laughed, “The wench isn’t afraid of me!”

 

“ _Lyra_ was born with frog spear in hand and is faster than any knight. You’d see the spots of light shining against the wall through your belly, as you would through a moth-eaten cloth, before you’d know she’d stuck you half a hundred times. But you knew she’d come from Greywater Watch.”

 

“I did.” He was now sitting on the chair across from her, busy removing his boots and seemingly nonplussed by what she’d just said.

 

Sansa stood, walked over towards him, and knelt in time to remove the last boot off his leg.

 

“How is Stranger?” she asked. He frowned and said nothing. “Oh, come now. Even _I_ know the smell of a stable,” she chided gently, running her fingers over his leg.

 

Suddenly, his hands were on her arms and this time he was the one to kiss _her_. She was growing accustomed to his kiss, to the stiffness on the burned side of his face. The feeling of hesitation in the act was receding. _In this he might be more unschooled than even I._ Boldly, her tongue sought his. She heard a low growl rise up from Sandor’s chest and, unexpectedly, he scooped her up under her bottom with one huge arm, as though she weighed nothing and moved to their bed. He sat on the bed with her on his lap before him. She drew his tunic over his head and ran her arms over the back of his neck and shoulders. Her fingers felt the fissures of more scars, but just then his own fingers worked themselves into the hair at the nape of her neck and she forgot his wounds. In that moment she knew only the feeling of his lips and hands.

 

His skin felt hard and warm; it felt like the stones of Winterfell’s walls, with water from the hot springs coursing through them. He smelled of leather and sweat and horse and pine. _He smells like a Northman,_ she mused. The thought made her heart beat faster and her lips hungrier. She felt the pulse of her heart between her legs.

 

One of Sandor’s hands moved to her hip and she could feel the heat of his massive hand through the layers of her nightgown and dressing robe. In an instant she felt the thickness of the fabrics, the weight of her hair in its braids. Still sitting on him, Sansa began to undo her braid, but suddenly she remembered another night, years ago, when she had been another’s bride, ready to undress.

 

His arms drew her close once again, interrupting her actions. “I want to see my lady wife,” he murmured into her neck. His hand moved to her breast, “I want to see your gorgeous teats.” He squeezed one breast through the fabric and kissed her beneath her ear. “I want to see your milky skin. I want to see the fire between your legs.”  

 

His kisses sent thrills through her body, but she was unable to stop her thoughts flying back to the dark corners in the Eyrie, when she’d been Alayne Stone. She thought of Littlefinger’s finger’s assessing gaze, the mismatched eyes of the Imp, as well as the eyes of Harry the Heir, Marillion the singer's and those of Ser Shadrich The Mad Mouse; she saw the hungry eyes of a thousand men. She recalled the feeling of a mailed hand striking her, tearing the clothes off of her and the sound of Joffrey’s cruel laughter. She felt the ghost of another man's breath on her neck. The smile wilted on her lips, while the feeling of desire died within her chest and was replaced by a feeling of sickness. Panic crashed over her like a great icy wave and she was paralyzed.

 

“I – I... Ser, I’m afraid I -,” her mouth felt dry, her head empty. She pushed Sandor away and stood. All at once she was once again just a silly little bird who couldn’t think of anything to say. She closed her eyes and shook her head. She tried to go on, but managed only “that is –“  _I’m still just a stupid little girl_.

 

“Quit your chirping, woman,” Sandor interrupted. His tone was gruff.

 

Sansa felt it hard to breath. She moved to turn away, but before she could move he grabbed her wrist and dragged her before him. Though she avoided his stare, she could feel his glare burning into her. She knew her skin was turning red and blotchy. The wind caught in her chest and she could only breathe in short, sharp pants.

 

“Look at me. _Look at me,”_ Sandor growled, and when she ignored him he shook her and she felt what was left of her braid come undone. “Gods be good Sansa. The Great Lady of Winterfell on the verge of tears? What the bloody hell has come over you?”

 

For some long moments she didn’t answer, but suddenly she felt herself taken into the crush of his massive arms. He grumbled into her hair, not unkindly, calling her a foolish woman, and brushed a huge calloused hand over her hair. The more he spoke, the more his voice managed to cast the creeping beasts of memory back into the darkened recesses of her mind; it drew her back into the present moment. She felt the pounding in her head diminish somewhat and her body relax into his. In the years since her escape from the Lannisters and then from Littlefinger’s designs, she’d come to find Sandor’s truthful, if fiercely brusque, manners a beacon in a world of shadows, deception, and obscurity.

 

Sandor’s hands moved to grasp her shoulders and pushed her away gently, though his eyes were serious, all smoke and flickering flame, “You’ll tell me what’s wrong, Sansa.”

 

The creeping beasts of memory threatened once again from the corners of her mind, but fury sparked somewhere deep within her belly and the monsters - half beast, half man - receded once again. _I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am a Clegane. The direwolf does not fear the lion. The hound does not bow to the mockingbird. I am no man’s pet._

 

“You know the life I’ve led, likely better than anyone,” she began, knowing her voice was full of pain, but at least no tears fell. She straightened her back, determined to push the pain away and replace it with her resolve, “You know what monsters stalked me amongst the shadows in King’s Landing and in the Eyrie. But they forgot they stalked the direwolf.”

 

“That’s true enough. I told you once that the gods made sheep so the wolves could eat mutton,” he recollected, “But those buggering fools didn’t see themselves for the sheep that they were while they goaded the true wolf. I was one of those monsters amongst the shadows. You know that, don’t you? It’s a good thing I didn’t stay longer than I did, watching you turn into the finest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.” He laughed. “Time spent mending wounds on a forsaken windblown island did me good, cooled my blood, maybe, but I’ll be damned if you weren’t even prettier when we found you, even sick as you were, in Greywater Watch. And all of Westeros learned of the ferocity of my lady’s bite.” A smile played across his unburned lips and his eyes teased, “Though I would like to know it for myself.”

 

Sansa stiffened. _I am no man’s pet._ He saw her grow cold and he scowled. His eyes were serious again.

 

“I’ve seen you Sansa. I’ve seen the way you carry yourself when you think others are watching. At court you are all charm and manners and every word is in its proper place.  You know how to get what you want. But then you watch. You’re there but not there. I know what you’ve lived, but you’ve built walls instead of wielding your sword. You’ve built walls so bloody high around you that you’re bound to lose yourself within them.”

 

 _My skin has turned to ivory, to porcelain, to steel._  Her heart beat loudly in her chest, but when she spoke she made sure her tone was calm, icy, unyielding, “And what of you, Ser? You think yourself fierce, but you’re only the greatest sulk in the Seven Kingdoms. You’ll ride into battle as blood boils in your veins, but you refuse to deem yourself worthy of the things you want.”

 

Sansa scanned her eyes over the man before her, the man she’d once feared, the man she’d come to want; the man made of war and pain and truth. His challenge emboldened her, made her feel more powerful than anything, and she learnt then that he believed in her, _saw her._ She knew he was right. Though the sadness and frustration remained, as it always did, she felt the fury within her belly being stoked to hunger and she smiled despite herself as her lips sought his. She forgot the scarred flesh, the beasts that lurked within her mind, and was lost in the grey intensity of his eyes, in the heat of his flesh. _Sometimes there is simply nothing to say._ The desire between her thighs thickened.

 

Her palms smoothed over the pocked, scarred flesh of his broad shoulders, across the soft black hair on his chest, and came to rest on his neck beneath his jaw. His own hands were gripped firmly onto her hips and Sansa could feel the heat of his hands through the layers of her dressing gown. _It is not enough_ , she thought as she moved her hands fumbled to unlace the drawstring.

 

“Help me,” Sansa whispered into Sandor’s lips. He growled as his hands reached for the neck of her dress and, in one strong movement, split the layers of fabric down the front. Sansa stood up from his lap and moved to draw the curtain in front of the window, blocking out the moonlight. She removed the dressing gown and was left wearing only her undertunic.

 

“Come here, damn you,” he urged, though the words were pleaded and his voice was hoarse. She could see his desire through the linen of his smallclothes.

 

Sansa gestured to his smallclothes and said, “Take those off.”  He did as instructed, but swooped out an arm and drew her towards him, grumbling all the while. All too briefly, she felt the firmness of his manhood brush against her belly through the fabric of her undertunic as he tossed her beneath him onto the featherbed.

 

She planted a kiss on his lips and undid herself from beneath him to tug the bedcurtains and draw them shut. There was no longer shadow, only darkness.

 

“You toy with me, woman,” he rasped into her ear before drawing her to him and kissing her once more; the hunger behind the gesture was evident. His hands moved furtively over her shoulders, down her arms and over her breasts, down to her hips. He drew her last remaining garment over her head. “I’ll burn this bloody thing.” But it was soon forgotten and all there was was warmth and darkness.

 

-

 

Some months passed spent in a routine they’d quickly settled into that seemed to suit them well enough. Sandor slept little; the evenings he’d spend in his chair, sitting late into the night, in front of the fire in the great hall surrounded by his hounds. Sometimes he’d brood in the stables, sitting by Stranger. He’d rise early to practice his sword fighting or to go hunting and then he’d look after the keep’s defenses and train gain with the men at arms. Meanwhile, Sansa spent her mornings hunting with her beloved hawk Dagger and the rest of the day she’d look after improving the keep, turning it into a functional and comfortable home. She’d abandoned her needlework and songs years ago.

 

In the years since her return to Winterfell from the Eyrie, she’d taken to walking. Sometimes Lyra would accompany her, but mostly Sansa would walk the hills around Winterfell alone. Walking seemed to clear her mind and afford her peace she could not maintain within Winterfell’s bustling walls.

 

When she’d told Sandor her intentions of walking beyond the walls of Longhall, he’d said only, “Fine. There’s not much to see around here, but see that you bring some dogs with you.” Though she’d only take one or two, sometimes all of Sandor’s hounds, half a dozen great big creatures, accompanied her on her walks. She began to grow accustomed to them and they even began to make her walks feel less lonely. She began to discern their different personalities; which ones were affectionate, which ones were surly, and which ones were silly. Though once they spotted a stag or a hare, there was no questioning their true nature. Sansa hadn’t known herself to be lonely on her walks before the dogs.

 

Sometimes Sansa explored the woods beyond the King’s Road or the shores of Long Lake, but mostly she’d wander the windswept hills behind Longhall. There was a subtle beauty she loved in those hills: the way she could see for miles atop a heath or the smell of flowers on the wind. After all those years in King’s Landing and in the Eyrie, it felt good to feel wind or sun or snow against her face, to feel the muscles in the meat of her legs burn when she’d work her way up a steep slope. There were no shadows there. In these hills she felt almost free as when she became Dagger, but this felt that much sweeter because she wore her own skin.

 

Though Longhall had a small godswood, Sansa did not take to visiting its heart tree. It stood nestled amongst a thicket of trees surrounding a sheer wall cut into a hill which served as the keep’s fourth wall. But one day while walking the hills beyond curtain wall, she came upon a single weirwood with an ancient face carved into its trunk. It stood alone atop a bluff and had one of the oldest looking faces Sansa had ever seen in a heart tree. Its huge white limbs reached towards the sky, the red leaves like drops of blood. Finding that tree made her feel oddly at ease and it became her favourite place to visit outside the walls of Longhall. She began to feel it safe to think of all the Starks that had been.

 

At night she’d share her bed with Sandor and never lacked for warmth. Those months were the closest thing to safety and happiness she’d known since the years of another girl’s childhood in Winterfell long ago. The first months of her marriage were lived simply and without trouble.

 

But all of this was before the raven came. Sansa had expected its arrival; she had known she could not hide forever.


	3. Shattered Shields

Sandor

The early morning sun shone brightly through a low hanging fog around Winterfell. A hunting party sat atop their mounts along a wood, Sandor Clegane among them. The party waited as their hounds sniffed furiously about the horses and riders. A horse whickered, breaking the silence, and a flock of birds took flight from the trees at the sound. A sudden noise from amongst the pines sent the hounds running through the woods. The hunters followed at close pursuit.

Sandor Clegane was not overly fond of hunting; he’d spent enough time following Robert Baratheon during his hunts, watching the great warrior pickling himself with drink and turn into fat. But today Sandor was glad for the diversion. A fortnight past the King in the North, Rickon Stark, had summoned Sandor to Winterfell, claiming he had business with his liege lord. But since Sandor’s arrival the young king had yet to speak with him. Sandor was still ignorant of the reason for his summon and growing impatient. 

Part of Sandor’s frustration stemmed from the fact that his new wife Sansa had remained behind at their keep, called Longhall. Over time, and despite himself, he’d grown accustomed to his wife’s presence and found himself missing her company. For some long years he had been a solitary man and none could have been more surprised than himself to realize he missed someone, and that someone be his own wife besides.

Sansa Stark was the king’s own sister and the stuff of songs. Her family was one of the oldest houses in Westeros and the blood of the first men flowed through her veins. After her escape from King’s Landing she had risen to a position of power and influence as her young brother’s most trusted advisor. Sansa was the king’s only living sister and was like a mother to him. She had become a favourite amongst the smallfolk and high born alike and was said to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Meanwhile, she had insisted on marrying Sandor Clegane, one of her brother’s liege lords and a reluctant war hero. They had now been married for nearly a year, living in the isolated castle the king had awarded him for his years of faithful service to House Stark during the wars against the Others. The castle was some leagues north of Winterfell, not far from the King’s Road. Since Sansa’s arrival at Longhall, she had set to furnish the keep and run its meager staff efficiently. Even Sandor had noticed that the place seemed warmer, less forlorn. Or maybe it was her mere presence that warmed him, sulk that he was. 

When summoned to Winterfell, Sansa asked to remain at Longhall just a while longer to finalize the search for Longhall’s maester. Sandor felt he’d got on just fine without one since his own arrival some years previous. Nevertheless, he’d set out without her.

In the first week after his arrival at Winterfell, Sandor had passed the time by practicing with the men in the yard, by learning what news there was from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and even acquiring supplies for Longhall. But without the company of his wife or any further task to accomplish, Sandor soon found himself bored and impatient. He could not leave Winterfell without the king’s consent and so, in a further attempt to pass the time, he began hunting in the woods around Winterfell in the company of his men. 

So there he was, sat atop his mount, following his hounds as they sought a stag through the dark coolness of an early morning forest. The hounds seemed to have lost the scent and so for some time the hunting party merely followed a path through the woods. 

The hunting party was mainly silent; Sandor preferred to keep company with men of action, not words. He’d never had much patience for boastful windbags or nervous greenhorns who relied on half truths or lies to build their reputations. It was better to let your sword do the talking. There was no lie in the naked steel of an unsheathed sword.

Suddenly, there was a crash and something emerged at great speed through the trees, but it was not stag. A boy sat atop a frothing, winded horse, and was looking at each of them furtively. The boy’s clothes were tattered and dirty and he had a cut on one arm. Sandor could smell the scent of sweat, blood, and smoke. The boy’s eyes were white and wide, like those of a terrified horse.

“My lord, it’s -,” he said, struggling for breath, “Longhall-“

“Speak boy! What is it damn you?” Sandor exclaimed impatiently, though he knew the signs of battle anywhere.

“Yes m’lord! L-Longhall’s burned and – “ the boy burst noisily into tears, “and the Lady Sansa is dead!”

-

The setting sun set the whole sky ablaze in dark reds and oranges, which cast long shadows over Longhall. At first glance the damage done was not obvious, but an evening breeze brought with it the smells of blood and fire. Sandor knew the smell all too well. His sword hand curled over the grip of his sword. The bastards know not who they’ve angered. I’ll see them sent to the Seven Hells.

Back in the woods around Winterfell, the young page had stopped crying as soon as he’d seen Sandor’s murderous expression and had managed, between hiccups and sniffles, to explain what he knew. Around midnight, a band of men had scaled the outer walls of the keep, slain some of the men at arms, and set fire to keep before disappearing into the night. The lady Sansa and her ladymaid Lyra could not be found and were believed either dead or taken. The boy had not yet finished speaking, and Sandor had spurred his horse and set off at a mad gallop in the direction of Longhall. His men-at-arms had immediately followed suit. King be damned. They had travelled for hours and Sandor had pushed his horse as much as he dared. His belly roiled and rage engulfed him; he did not remember most of the journey. 

Suddenly, it dawned on him that his horse was no longer beneath him, but unsure how or when it had gone. One of his grooms had likely taken it away, poor beast. He was glad at least that Stranger was still safe in the stables at Winterfell. The beast was getting on in years and Sandor did not like to push him. Stranger deserved a warm stable and plenty of hay and sweet oats. Sandor took a long breath, breathed in the Stranger’s familiar scent of fire and flesh, and advanced towards what was left of his home.

-

Sandor and Sansa had been married for about a year now. He had dared let himself be as happy as he’d ever known himself to be, fool that he was. The night of their wedding had been the first night they’d shared a bed, and he’d felt as green and unsure of himself as any pimply squire. He’d known other women, whores mostly. They were the only ones he could stand because they did not pity him. He could not stand pity. Sansa was different than any woman in Westeros and, though he knew she had her own secrets, he’d gladly follow her to the depths of the Seven Hells.

Sweat had tickled his neck and face despite the cool northern breeze as they’d stood in the godswood of Winterfell before the heart tree. There he’d said the only true oath of his life and pledged himself to Sansa Stark. He’d felt a twinge of shame as he’d placed the heavy cloth of his mother’s cloak on Sansa’s shoulders, at the faded yellow and black of his family’s sigil. And yet he’d thought, She’s old enough now to know me. Sansa damn well knows she’s married a dog. Although later he’d smiled, as they lost themselves in each others’ arms, in the warmth of a dark and ancient room in Winterfell. 

Everything had changed the moment Sansa had stepped over the threshold at Longhall. The place no longer felt lofty and cold. For the first time it felt almost warm. Maybe, for the first time in so many years, it was he that felt warm. 

At first he’d thought she’d been mocking him, often wearing the Clegane colours and always wearing his mother’s broach he’d gifted her, but after a time he’d realized that his lady wife was wearing his family’s colours with what seemed like pride. If only old Ned and Caitlyn Stark could see their prized daughter now, he’d thought and could not suppress his laughter. The North’s favourite lady, Westeros’ great beauty. She could have been Queen in the North, but instead she’d married a hound and seemed proud to wear his cloak in their near-deserted keep. 

Sansa had loved hawking with her precious Dagger and taking long walks in the hills around Longhall. He’d insisted she take his hounds to accompany her. She’d laughed in his face at his foolishness, but had ceded to his request. Sandor loved hearing the sounds of barking which heralded her return. He loved hearing her speak kindly to all around her, whatever their station. He loved watching her hunt with Dagger outside the keep, her body poised with unmatched grace and her long hair, come undone in the wind, flashing under the sun like flames of fire. But most of all he loved hearing her speak softly to his mangy hounds and see her long noble fingers scratch the coarse fur behind their ears. 

His wife was beautiful, as well as warm and generous to those around her, but before coming to Longhall, there had been steel beneath the smiles. In King’s Landing, her words had been thoughtless utterances, fuelled by ignorance and fear. At Winterfell, her words were her sword and shield; her blade was sharp and her defense impenetrable. Sansa had emerged from Greywater Watch a woman grown, no longer the silly and naive young girl he had known in King’s Landing. She had returned to Winterfell to sit by her young brother Rickon, the king, as his beloved sister and most trusted advisor; together the siblings the world had thought long dead had brought House Stark back from the catacombs and founded a new dynasty in the annals of history. During that time, her smiles had been warm; her words loving but firm, and they had won the love of the people. But her words had been nothing if not calculated and cautious. In those first months at Longhall he’d felt that Sansa had begun to feel at ease, that he had begun to see the real Sansa Stark. He loved her madly as did the rest of Longhall’s inhabitants. 

Nevertheless, he’d known she’d concealed secrets, but he’d had no wish to know them. He’d not wished to reopen old wounds; the wounds he’d seen when she’d flinched from him one night in their bedchamber. She was so beautiful, he wanted to see all of her. Though her smile had returned, he’d known how men had treated her in King’s Landing and in the Eyrie; he’d known how he’d treated her and so that night he’d waited for her spirit to return to him. Soon enough, she’d grinned, revealing perfect white teeth, and drawn the curtains of their bed tightly round them and he’d lost himself in her perfection.

But for some months, he’d known something was very wrong with his lady wife, despite her best efforts to conceal herself. Something had changed drastically and seemingly overnight. She’d become more withdrawn, less prone to laughter. She’d venture out on longer and longer walks. She still smiled her brilliant smile, but something in her eyes had changed. She’d receded back into Sansa the Queen, the way she’d been at Winterfell. Her sword and shield were poised once again. He’d wanted to shake the truth out of her, but feeling himself a coward, said nothing and only watched.

It had also not escaped his attention that Sansa’s ladymaid, Lyra, seemed more and more protective of her. She was not scared of Sandor and was not afraid to tell him where to go, green eyes blazing. Sandor knew that, more often than not, she’d love nothing more than to stick him with a frog spear. He liked Lyra.

It was late one night that his suspicions were sealed, when he’d encountered Sansa on the serpentine steps of their keep. She’d been descending the steps in the dark as he’d ascended to bed. She’d not shielded her eyes against the light of his taper, but looked directly at him.

“Good evening husband,” she’d smiled at him as though it were noon day and nothing were amiss, “I could not sleep and thought to pass the time by walking.” He’d not been convinced.

Once again he’d said nothing, only ground his teeth. During the day, in the sunlight, Sansa’s eyes were the blue of deep pools made bright by the soft light of a summer sun, but that night they’d seemed darker, more like the colour of Long Lake when storm clouds threatened. With a smile as warm as the seas of Dorne, she’d put her arm in his and led them to their bedchamber.

As he lay next to her that night and waited for sleep to take him, he’d remembered the days before the Battle of the Blackwater. He smiled to himself, thinking of the last time he’d caught her at night on a serpentine step. In King’s Landing, Sansa Stark had spent much time sneaking about in the dark of the godswood and the Red Keep. He’d caught her once as she’d returned from the godswood, claiming she’d been at prayer. She’d been a horrible liar then, so afraid at being caught at her foolishness her voice had stammered. But in the years since she’d grown to be one of the best in the Seven Kingdoms, but still she could not fool him. He could always spot out a liar; everyone had a chink in their armour, it was simply a matter of spotting it. If only they could all see her now, if only the Lannisters could see his little bird grown into a hawk. Sansa had muttered something in her sleep and turned towards him, reaching her arm over his chest. The pretty little hawk, he thought. At that, he’d made a noise that was mostly grunt, but part chuckle, and had fallen asleep with his wife’s hand on his heart.

-

The next night, he’d gone up to the maester’s towers and waited in the dark until the early hours. As he’d suspected, Sansa had come through the doorway to the maester’s quarters, moving like a wraith in the moonlight. She’d moved with soundless steps towards the ravens. The light of the moon shone brightly that night and though Sandor had waited in the shadows she’d seen him immediately. Once again, she’d not acted surprised. She’d merely stood there, unmoving, waiting patiently for him to speak. It was then he’d understood just how much his lady had reign over her own feelings and actions, how well she played the game.

When neither one of them made to speak, Sansa had moved towards the quarking birds, opened one of the cages and waited for the raven to hop onto her arm. She’d attached a letter and the bird flew off through the opened window. Sansa had sat in the seat beside her husband, smoothed her skirts, and met his gaze. Her eyes were unfathomable.

“What are you about Sansa?” he’d said gruffly.

Sansa’s gaze had not wavered, but her blue eyes glowed with a veiled intensity. She was a creature of ice, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Sandor was not one to be intimidated, but he’d felt himself stall, and that was close enough. He’d cleared his throat and went on.

“I’m no fool Sansa. I’ve asked you before, but you’ve not told me true. You’ll tell me what it is you conceal. You told me once you had designs on this place, on us for some time, but what you didn’t say was why you chose to go ahead with this, with coming here, with marrying me now.” He clenched his fists, trying to contain the building frustration. “Why now, Sansa?” 

Still Sansa did not respond. She looked away and looked towards the moon. Had she heard him? Of course she had. Her long pale fingers fingered the brooch he’d given her. His dead mother’s brooch. “What gave me away?” she asked absentmindedly. 

“It’s your damned smile, Sansa. There used to be a warmth behind it, now it’s turned to ice. Cersei Lannister - ”

In a flash, Sansa had stood, facing towards the window, her back towards Sandor. For a moment, she’d said nothing, but then she’d turned, skirts twirling tightly around her legs. Her eyes blazed like frost. He nearly laughed. Finally some genuine emotion from the woman.

She stood before him, fists clenched. “I’ll have you know I’ve been corresponding with my sister.”

He’d only laughed, not surprised that Arya Stark still lived. Sansa Stark had only one sister and he’d thought her long dead, like most of House Stark. As children, he remembered that the Stark sisters were as different from one another as the moon from the sun. Sansa had a head full of books and songs, while Arya had been headstrong and defiant. 

“Ah. And what’s the she-wolf up to these days?” 

Sandor Clegane prided himself on his strength, on his ability to turn most men’s bowels to water. But what Sansa said next made him feel as though Robert Baratheon had slammed his warm hammer into Sandor’s belly.

“She watches over my son.”

She waited patiently during the moments he took to steady himself, watching him with those all seeing eyes. His vision blurred and he blinked angrily. Even when he made to speak he could only wrasp, “Who?”

Like a septa patiently leading a child in lesson, Sansa knew what he meant to say. “The identity of the father is irrelevant,” she said. The words were firm. “He is my son and that is all that matters. He is a Stark and the current heir to the North. No one knows of his relation to me other than Howland Reid, Lyra, Rickon, and Arya. He lives at Greywaterwatch, being raised as a Crannogman.” She went on, not waiting for, or perhaps not expecting, a reply. “I had hoped I could conceal myself until I bore you your own children.” Again, he was dumbfounded.

It was only then that a brief shadow had drawn over her face, like the shadow of a fast paced cloud over the sun it had gone in an instant. “I had not thought to be barren. Perhaps it was for the best.” It suddenly dawned on him, what a colossal fool he’d been. Though they’d been rather shy in their own ways, he understood now why she’d always insist on coupling in the dark, and often. This wounded him as much as any knife point. Damn fool. No such beauty could love such a dog.

His words were a growl, “Seven hells woman, even I’d have noticed eventually!”

Sandor could’ve imagined it, but he’d been sure he’d her twitch, however imperceptibly. But then all he could see was her determination. In her he’d recognized the ferocity and challenge that burned in an opponent’s eyes on the battlefield. The damn fool thinks I’ll abandon her.

Long ago, Sandor had wanted Sansa to see that the world was ruled by sharp steel and strong arms, for her to know that life was not a song. That life was cruel and ugly and unjust. But not like this. Not like this. Sansa had escaped the lion’s den that was King’s Landing only to fall into a serpent’s nest, to be used by Littlefinger just like another one of his whores. I should have killed her the night of the Blackwater, rather than have someone else finish the job later. While Sandor had been digging graves on the Quiet Isle, Sansa had been... she’d - Sandor slammed his fist against the stone wall, hearing his little finger snap from the impact but not feeling the pain. Warm blood ran red down his hand. He didn’t want to think of what she’d known under the touch of smiling men with rotted souls. He felt like roaring his fury, to feel his sword in hand, to cleave a man in half, he felt like drinking himself into senselessness, he felt like setting Longhall to flames. He felt tired. He felt like weeping. Seven bloody buggering hells. Not this. Not her. The pretty little bird... was there anything left of Sansa Stark or have we finally all torn her to bloody bits?

Her voice had interrupted his thoughts. “And I wagered that should you find out that the generosity bestowed upon you by House Stark would not be forgotten. But most of all I had hoped you would still love me... such as you do,” her voice was a whisper, but the words were solid stone. “And as I love you.” He knew she had loosed her last quiver from her bow. She seemed almost tired, then. Her eyes were the bright blue of summer pools and like those of her hawk, they saw everything as always. The moonlight shone off the red of her hair, made darker in the pale blue light. The greatest beauty in Westeros. Fire and ice. His own eyes darted away from the intensity of her gaze.

He’d always known that Sansa Stark had her own scars. And who was he to judge her? He’d draped his house’s cloak about her shoulders, he’d pledged before gods and men to keep her safe. It was the only pledge he’d ever made. He would not fail her. Not again. Never again. “You’re the only heart I’ve ever had.” He grunted and lay his uninjured hand on her shoulder, towering above her, “Bring the child here, Sansa.” He would not fail the child either. Sansa’s child. Sansa’s own blood and flesh. He’d defend the young thing with sword and shield; he’d ensure the child would grow to defend itself. Sandor could feel the tears of rage and sorrow threatening and did not trust himself to speak more. They’d gone to bed without saying more and lain under the furs without sleep coming to either one of them.

A few days later he’d received the summons from Winterfell and now here he stood, looking down at two charred bodies, one supposed to be Lyra the lady’s maid, and the other his wife, the Lady Sansa. A long screech signalled the presence of a bird of prey circling above.


End file.
